Ceilidh
by Jade de Green Queen
Summary: Pitch Black's entire existence revolves around hate and schedules; his own misfortune is the only thing he can see. One too-optimistic Irish girl draws him straight into the very crowd he's always been at odds with, in the colorful variety at the Guardian Dance Academy. AU.


**This is the first time I've written something to be posted in first person, so bear with me. I am also decidedly not male...or Pitch; as strangely cool as that would be, I'm content being myself. Anyhow, the POVs will likely change in later chapters. OCs are present and some have a huge role in this story. For Rainbow Snowcone lovers, this will soon abound in said shipping. And for anyone who is confused, this takes place in modern times, and all the characters are just normal, average humans. I should probably be working on my other stories I promised I would finish...but this one is very, very captivating and I just can't stop. They'll get done eventually, don't fret too much. Prepare yourselves, 's view of life is just absolutely dreadful.**

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I've always been good at keeping scores of transgressions, even little things. I could probably recall the names, first and last, of everyone who broke one or more of my crayons in kindergarten. That's why everyone steers clear; I'm not the friendliest when I've been wronged. Or friendly in general, I suppose.

I've made it clear this year that I do not forgive Lunar. I most likely never will.

This year I'm cutting through every day like a serrated knife, glaring and constantly rubbing people the wrong way, but I've given up on fighting. Milam Lunar is like an infected blister, and whenever I try to treat it by simply cutting it off, it grows worse, as he saunters through his days with charisma. When you're up against the most prized possession of the Guardian Dance Academy and you _inexplicably_ lose a battle, administration turns on you. The board states that if any other instance happens with you involved, you're no longer welcome.

Which is a shame, they say, since I'm especially good at what I do.

I'm not going to lie, the only reason I've gotten so far is practice. Practice _does_ make perfect; in fact, when things are not perfect, I take it upon myself to make them that way. My perfection is the reason I _am_ still here after last year's scuffle, and that's only because my perfection excels Milam's, which comes full circle to the point that he isn't perfect because he doesn't practice.

My day is monotonous. I wake up, dress, eat, leave for college, and depending on the day I'll have several classes. Organic chemistry, calculus, literature, and theatre, which hates me as much as I hate it, but I needed a schedule filler. It was a choice between theatre and physical education, and believe you me, I get enough physical activity in my major.

Which I call "classical dance" because "ballet" opens a completely different door for mockery. Men in ballet are few and far between, for stereotypical reasons. Which is oddly terrifying. It takes massive skill and extensive training to master, like most dances, but the regimen is more of a strain; more pain involved...more practice.

In short, I'd love to put Milam on the barre. Doubt he'd know what to do with himself.

Classical dance pushes to extremes. Dropouts are common, injuries even more common, and just barely passing is the general average. I say this not to put myself in a better light than anyone else, but to prove a point. I've worked to be where I am despite being easily despised; it's come with a price.

Practice.

My life revolves around this. I don't have time for society – even outside of this academy, I live and breathe the dance, regardless of how much I hate my troupe downtown. Performances are usually daily, but it's simply not _enough _practice, which is the point of my personal barre in my room.

It's an obstacle course to get there, and that's what I was dreading as I paced by the maple in the courtyard. That tree is the brightest one of its companions; it has thus been the precise location for break. Whether or not to have lunch at break is always in debate. Depends on whether I have my wallet on me...and, of course, if I'm hungry, which I'm not usually. Self-control, sometimes to the point of self-deprivation, is a virtue I value, especially in my expected line of work, so an apple often does the trick in quenching whatever little hunger strikes up.

I'm not one of those crazies who purposely eats too little to support their bodies...I just forget sometimes, is all. Or I'm too busy, which is much more likely.

As I limbered against the tree to prepare for the next three hours of perfection, I noticed a secondary class held in the studio. The secondary classes for classical dance are electives for other dance majors who require some training in ballet, and sadly enough, they end up full of young female adults. It's not that in itself which is a tragedy, but I believe I've stated my point about spineless men and the art of ballet before.

Anyhow, the girls, most of them extremely dull-looking – which is to say, seeming as though they had quite a lack of an interesting personality – began warmup on the barre. I resisted yawning.

After a certain amount of time in the studio, you learn what is professional and what is amateur.

Their warmups were certainly not professional, I could safely say, and that was not to put myself in a higher position than them – well, maybe it was.

Two of the students were late. Punctuality is another thing I value. It took self-control merely to hold in a disgusted scoff. Dancing is serious, and one thing you should never catch _me_ being is _late_ for dancing. One of the two at least held this offense in the same priority, but upon noticing it was Rashmi, I disregarded her wisdom.

Rashmi is in the same crowd as Milam. I detest people who are very keen on detesting me, and she is one of them, however devoted to her career she is. I could not bring myself to be cordial to her.

The other was not so concerned. She had this impish grin, ever present, as she jumped into a simpler rendition of _Waltz of the Sugar Plum Fairies_. A frizzy, too-long braid swung around her; I would have suspected it to impede her movements, but it seemed to have little effect. Immediately I knew she was too free-lanced to be serious about ballet. She jumped too much on her toes, spun too quickly, smiled too wide, wasn't far enough in her extensions, and her feet moved too fast for the steps.

Her figure abruptly paused mid-stride, which was when I inferred she must have spotted me following their routine. Any warmup is a good warmup, and I didn't much feel like making something up on the spot. Why bother when someone has the groundwork set out for you? It's practice either way. I suppose to her it must have been peculiar, a figure clad in grayscale – my normal – mimicking their movements with precision and accuracy.

What caught me mildly off guard was the increased effort on her part. I paid indifferent attention as she strained to outdo me, an impossibility considering the flawed technique I'd already distinguished, but it was amusing to watch her ridiculous determination. Losing concentration as she fruitlessly competed against me, her extensions began to wobble, eventually flailing. She drew the attention of both Rashmi and her instructor, and seemed more focused on me than on her own failure.

It was oddly gratifying, but I ought to be perfect. And as much as I was used to getting no recognition, I was forced to admit that it is what perfection should entail...or, would under usual circumstances, entail. Perhaps she was more intriguing at that point than she should have been.

Too soon was our silent spar with the other stranger interrupted. The instructor – faintly I remembered her name was _Chanel – _chastised the brunette for her horrific dancing. I held back a smirk; it wasn't quite everyday that I proved to be a worthwhile distraction.

But I had work to do, practice to start and finish and start again. I snuck a last, disinterested yet somewhat mischievous glance at the idiot girl who'd gotten in trouble. She was talking to Rashmi, and turned away, towards the barre, suddenly popping up onto her toes and jumping, a high-flying, peppy jump, her ballet-shoed feet moving around each other like lightning and landing with practiced ease.

Today seemed a day full of oddities, at least since I'd seen her – I was, for once, curious for something other than my own affairs. Rashmi smacked the girl playfully, the both of them surely participating in one of those waste-of-lung-capacity friendly conversations. I vaguely ran over which dance the stupid girl could major in, but nothing came to mind. Not anything folk, I would think, with a jump like that; definitely not Russian. Not ballet; she was awful. Bollywood, martial arts, ribbon – maybe, figure skating, tap dancing, jazz, anything.

I frowned, giving up the thought process with a slight shrug. The career choice of an easily distracted, not punctual, merry little clumsy female mattered not to me. Especially not as Rashmi directed a glare through the glass at my form, motioning to me and talking to her friend.

I slung my bag full of atrocious supplies over my shoulder, not bothering to stick around. I'd take no chances in the sorry excuse for a classical dancer approaching me for any reason. She had invaded my thoughts without much time to remove her from them – I needed to refocus.

Well, that, and I was still in horrific anticipation of what I was supposed to do upon my return home. I had the rest of break, major, troupe practice, show, and then what? At seven I'd have to go back, just barely satisfy my mother with a generic description of my day, comfort and practice more with Sera, evade my father at all costs...eat an awkward meal, or push most of it around on a clinky china plate, head upstairs, and practice until ten on the dot.

Day in, day out, again, again, again. It's not that I mind relentless practice, but the _wait_ kills. I work through shows with people I hate each day just to know that I'll have more money to put in my savings. This, however, includes my having to go back and face the one person I can safely admit I dislike almost as much as Milam, my father, a soft and submissive addend to him, my mother, and Sera, my sister, who depends on me with her whole being.

I scowled about the idiot girl's wide grin. She knew nothing of life and its misfortune; that much was evident on her sharp, shrewish little face.

I don't think I could've seen it coming. Major was hard, and I was again ruling the barre over the rest of the people who skimmed the failing mark, not without some strain. Distraction is never good, and I was putting everything into the exact angle of my feet as we counted, or as I counted in my head. When there is no music, you make your own, and mine is counting because counting the strokes of your limbs makes them more disciplined. For me, at least.

_One two three four five six seven eight one two three four fi-_

A sharp, patterned knock on the wood-panel door to the studio rang out. My balance was uninterrupted on my part, but the girl next to me slipped and knocked me against the smooth wood rail. I glowered at her, relishing in the cower I received. She was sorry, and I couldn't care less about the transgression itself, but it had become quite the hobby to get a terrified rise out of others.

It's quite all I can do seeing as I'm hated. I've learned to love the fear I receive.

Perhaps this has something to do with my imposing height.

I transferred my glare to the window, seeing only the top half of a face. The visitor was evidently short because the windows are tall and elongated; _very _short. It was a female, immediately I knew, the bright, brown-lined amber eyes peering into our class with weird elation.

I didn't like the intrusion already, since it had caused a rift in my studio time. They _do_ count it in troupe admissions, how much time you've put into the studio.

Lo and behold, when Miss Mara opened that door, the _idiot_ girl stood there, crouched, giving only the impression of her being short. She rose, her grin impeccably plastered to her face, eyes narrowed with a smile at all of us, that braid hanging over her shoulder and down to the line of her hips. She scanned us over, talking about something, and seating herself in a desk chair (as if we ever use those), whipping out a notebook and a pencil.

I snorted.

Her eyes met mine, and despite my lazy anger, the mirth in her face remained an unbroken slate of joy. She was here to watch me, I realized. She must have known, with my expertise, that this was where I'd be; another glance (a natural, wholly uninterested one, I made sure) confirmed that she wasn't about to turn her gaze from my posture.

I had a feeling she'd be annoying.

I determined not to give her the satisfaction of paying her any more attention; it was relatively easy to decipher that was what she wished, to catch me in such a curious state as she had been earlier that day. My work is too important to me, to give up so easily, however quickly _she_ could drop her concentration from it, and so I ignored her presence for a good two hours.

The third hour proved to be a problem. Break from routine was every ten minutes, and each time I paused for water and a quick stretch, even leaning in the general direction of her, the notebook snapped shut brusquely.

The sound of bristling paper got annoying after the fourth time she opened and shut the stupid thing. It was really against my nature to be curious...it proved difficult when I wasn't quite sure what she was writing in the first place.

Again, logic demanded that I didn't _care_ what she was writing. Of what concern is a meddling girl with brown, poofy hair to me? None, I reminded my subconcious. She was unimportant, and I needed to focus.

"Could you just – hold that!" the girl addressed me – who did she _think _she was? This was _my major _that she had so aggravatingly invaded, and she had the audacity to – I growled and held the extension.

A firm sort of smile spread over her features, and I scowled at her moving pencil. At least now I was within range of the book, and glancing at it offered no small surprise.

She'd been sketching me for two and a half hours.

Well.

That was actually quite the interesting development. The stupid girl was a stalker, most definitely. I narrowed my eyes at her and the graphite images of me on the paper, earning my fair share of amusement at the fearful expression in her widened eyes. Crimson stained her cheeks as she matched my stare – unexpected, and I wanted her to cower.

I stood straight, towering over her sitting form.

"Thanks," she mumbled, before scampering away, grabbing at her possessions in a frenzy and nearly blowing through the studio door in an escape attempt. Hopefully she'd learned her lesson; I hardly had any more time to waste on lazy females.

"Saved by the bell" is not a saying which I use often, but I felt it was fitting for the circumstance. The encounter between the two of us had attracted the attention of _my _instructor, and unlike _some _people, I was affected by the social consequences of certain actions.

I was adamant with myself that I should not lose focus ever again. Her existence was forgotten (almost) as I changed in the bathroom stall, avoiding the walls and other contaminated surfaces, into a more suitable outfit for troupe practice.

I headed downtown, dodging passersby and turning into the theatre.

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**So who is the stupid girl? If any of you have read Wild Faerie Dance (the little of it which is actually posted; my goodness am I slacking off), there's a certain fall Sidhe named Autumn.**

**All your beloved ROTG characters - well, most of them, appear in the next two chapters. I thank you kindly for all your support! Please REVIEW; I also want to note that I cried at a particular kind review, so yes, all your words are appreciated to the fullest extent. Until later, this is Jade de Green Queen declaring her love for you.**


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